The Three Krogers

There's a popular meme afloat these days that reads something like, "I'm at the place in my life where running errands counts as 'going out'." I think that if we were all to be honest with ourselves, this is actually the case for many of us, particularly since the Covid lockdown. But there's a grain of truth to this adage, in that we really don't have to explore too far to satisfy our need for a shot of dopamine from time to time. If you're not familiar with that oft-mentioned neurotransmitter, Psychology Today provides a succinct and accurate definition of its effects: 

Dopamine causes you to want, desire, seek out, and search. It increases your general level of arousal and your goal-directed behavior. Dopamine makes you curious about ideas and fuels your search for information. 

This is true; indeed, one needs look no further than the nearest grocery store to get a dopamine fix. Now, that's crazy, you say, but honestly, when you grab that last shopping cart and enter those automatic doors, don't you feel a little rush seeing all that food right there in front of you? Of course, you do. 

For some reason, in our area of north suburban Atlanta, we have three Kroger supermarkets within a two-mile radius. We refer to them by nicknames, and so they are "Kroger 3000", 1.5 miles from our house, so named becuase it is located at 3000 Old Alabama Road, "Scott Road Kroger", 1.4 miles away, and "Rivermont", a veritable field trip at 1.8 miles down the road. (There is a Publix thrown in there, and that's a good thing, because they have the best prices on pet food.) All these stores have been in business for at least 15 years. You'd have thought that at least one of them would have closed, but instead, two of them have been totally remodeled in a somewhat post-apocalyptic style, while the third retains its bright, cheery personality. The first two can reduce the dopamine flow a bit, but then you see the Cheez-Its, and it shoots right back up there. 

I was fortunate to marry a lady who is an incredible cook and baker, so I'm often sent on shopping trips, and to be honest, I don't mind that at all, since I grew up in the grocery business and have always had something of an interest in it. Since I quit working full-time a while ago, I actually find myself at a store several times a week, and every time I'm there, I find something that either fascinates or appalls me, sometimes both in one trip. Who can say that's not excitement? 

Some years ago, when Scott Road was built, the designers included animated figures above several of the departments. This was endlessly fascinating to children and to more than a few adults. A cow mooed above the dairy section, and a nearby chicken let out a happy cackling sound as eggs descended beneath her, each accompanied by a happy slide whistle sound. When Scott Road was remodeled, many of these animatronic wonders were silenced, casting a pall over an otherwise lighthearted shopping experience. I mean, it had been like being at Disney, but for a lot less money. 

I always appreciate the spontaneous joy that is sparked by produce misting. There you are, looking for turnips, when suddenly, you find yourself in a suburban rainforest, closing your eyes and basking in the gentle, refreshing mist, all while other shoppers look at you as if you have ingested a big bowl of peyote. Produce is general is exciting, because it's so unpredictable. You can have been at the store on Tuesday morning and seen beautiful fresh green beans, but when you return at 5:30 PM, along with all the "happy" shoppers who are stopping by on the way home from work, all that's left of said vegetables is a sad assortment of wispy green strings which appear to have been used in the filming of a Walking Dead episode. It's a very temporal thing, produce is. 

Speaking of, the most difficult item to find in any of our Three Krogers is shallots. A few weeks ago, my wife sent me shopping with a list that I thought (and that's the operative word here) included them. I recalled from an earlier visit how hard they had been to locate. What I didn't really pay attention to was the fact that she had asked for SCALLIONS. Despite the fact that I'm an over-60 male, I do know what scallions are, but having this bizarre fixation on shallots instead, I desperately asked a produce employee if they had any scallions. He looked at me quizzically and then pointed to a bin no more than 15 feet away and said, "Scallions? Those are green onions. They're right there." And I knew, right then and there, that he was laughing at me. Of course, I knew what scallions were, I thought. Was I losing my mind? No, I told myself, I got them confused with SHALLOTS, which are nigh-on-impossible to find. It's a mistake anyone could make, I told myself.

One particular factor that added a bit of challenge to the otherwise engaging activity of grocery shopping during the Covid era was the forced redirection of customers up and down the aisles in such a way that they would minimize contact with each other. At each of the Three Krogers, and also in The Publix, removable tape was put down in each aisle, indicating the direction traffic was to flow. I liked this, because it seemed to avoid traffic jams among shoppers, and to some degree, it minimized the sudden about-face that someone does when they realize that they've forgotten something farther back down the aisle. Not that I have ever been guilty of that, of course. When the tape was removed, all hell broke loose, and now you have to stand your ground in front of the peanuts in order to avoid getting sideswiped. 

So honestly, I think there's something to that meme I mentioned at the beginning of this post. Years ago, I had to drive all over Atlanta to satisfy my need for urban exploration, but these days, I only need drive less than two miles to experience a rush of dopamine. I try to park in the same area in front of each respective store, so that there's no gotta-find-my-car stress when exiting. Truly, I feel the joy sparking in a way that would make Marie Kondo proud. 

By the way, I think one of the reasons that overhead chicken isn't cackling any more is because her eggs are selling for over $5.00 a dozen. But that's another post. Ciao.

Breaking the Sour Cream Barrier

I am that rare individual who possesses a California birth certificate and yet does not care much for avocados. I'm often asked, and these are the exact words, "How can you be from California and not like avocados?" Well, I only lived there full-time when I was a wee tot, and back in those days, Angie Dickinson had not made those 1970s commercials that resulted in the avocado becoming an object of culinary desire. In later years, when I would spend summers in the San Fernando Valley and Ventura County, I was more enamored of Thrifty ice cream and whatever nibbles I could pick up around town while riding my Spyder bike. Food was an afterthought -- sunshine was first on my mind.

Over the years, there have been certain foods which have just never had much appeal to me. In some cases, I downright fear a food, but that's getting better as I get older. And it's about time, since in many senses of the word, I guess I am a senior citizen. My latest personal victory has been sour cream. I've wondered for years why people like to dabble this appropriately-named concoction onto otherwise delightful Mexican food, but it took a to-go order mistake for me to acquire a taste for it.

One day during the height of the pandemic, I placed an online to-go order at my local Chipotle, during a brief interval in which it was not shut down because of lettuce or salsa contamination. I ordered my usual: a bowl with black beans and cilantro-lime rice, with barbacoa for the protein, and corn salsa, grated cheese, and salsa verde. When I picked up the order, I didn't check the contents, and I arrived home with a chicken bowl, pinto beans and white rice, pico de gallo, and a topping of SOUR CREAM. In a bout of both horror and hunger, hunger won out, and I started eating, realizing that I actually liked this, so much so that on my next online order, I intentionally ordered what I had been served in error. And that was the beginning of my sour cream fascination.

Now, a year or so later, I cannot order the #1 combo at Taco Bell (three crispy Supreme beef tacos with a beverage of your choice) without sour cream. In fact, I've started saving the little bits of taco that crack off as you're eating and using them to scoop up more sour cream. In so doing, I tell myself that I am actually eating a taco salad, which is kind of healthy, I think.

This experience with crème fraîche makes me wonder what else I may be missing. I recall vividly sitting in front of an order of KFC mashed potatoes one night in the 1960s and being told by my mother (an otherwise gentle and caring individual) that I could not leave the table until they were finished. I sat there for an hour, probably missing much quality television, until I finally dipped my spoon into the potatoes and gravy, put it in my mouth, and experienced what can only be described as a religious awakening. Since that evening, I have been a huge fan of mashed potatoes, and also now enjoy many other foods that I once feared, among them broccoli, asparagus, cauliflower, carrots, and even tater tots. I try not to even think about all the years without tater tots.

One day last summer, I was having lunch with my daughter Hannah at Mi Vida on the waterfront in Washington, D.C. It is referred to online as "Celebrity chef's high-end Mexican fare in a glamorous bi-level setting with killer waterfront views." Without my even thinking about it or paying much attention, Hannah ordered guacamole. When it arrived, I took a bite and found that I actually enjoyed it. This meant that in a sense, I had achieved something major, since guacamole contains more than a little avocado. Hannah was elated and immediately snapped my picture while I sat there smiling and eating the guac. She then forwarded it to our whole family, including our daughter Sarah, whose homemade guacamole I had often refused. I was reprimanded by Sarah, who said something like, "Oh, sure, you won't eat mine, but you'll eat it there. Fine."

I really do try to keep an open mind about things, but I know that food remains a weak point. My kids tell me I eat like a teenager, but I don't think that's necessarily true. For example, I tend to favor those things that McDonald's has on sale in the mobile application, not just any random old thing on their menu. And I almost always, practically never, ok, maybe once in 2019, order large fries.

Wait a second. Can you put sour cream on top of guacamole?

Les dangers du poisson grillé

The best fish I have ever eaten was a marvelous plate of swordfish at Hugo's Lighthouse in Cohasset, Massachusetts. The worst was some dreadful mackerel from a sushi sampler at Yagura Ichiban in L.A.'s Little Tokyo. In between, there have been many other fish dinners, and fortunately, they've typically been on the good side. 

Being married to a Bostonian gives me the occasional opportunity to sample really good Atlantic seafood, and having been raised in Memphis, I absolutely adore a plate of fried catfish and hush puppies. (To be honest, I'm really hooked on Captain D's as well.) All fish is brain food, or so they say. Some people even go whole hog and load themselves up on fish oil for one reason or the other. If the capsules weren't the size of a bus, I'd probably take them myself.

And so it happens that from time to time, and not very often at that, we prepare our own seafood at home. This most often results in a delectable meal, pictures of which either or both of us will promptly post on Facebook or Instagram. But not always.

Years ago before we had children, Karen and I decided one evening to grill some kind of innocuous white fish out on a little Weber tabletop grill that we had procured while testing the waters of back yard grilling. It was a neat little device, and it used a single propane tank, the kind you would use to power a lantern. Everything was going well with the fish grilling until I tried to power off the gas and remove the tank from the grill. I discovered that the valve on the propane tank had not closed; indeed, a small flame had erupted from the tank, and I was unable to extinguish it. In something of a panic, I tossed the tank into the back yard and immediately called the Roswell fire department.

It is worth noting that in those days (the early 1980s), the city of Roswell was still a relative outpost from the city of Atlanta, and perhaps because of this, it had its own volunteer fire department. Hence, any fire call would be answered by a plethora of vehicles, some of which, such as pumper trucks and hook and ladders, were the vehicles of the trade, whereas others were pickup trucks with makeshift sirens and lights, driven in many cases by good ol' boys with the very best of intentions. Within minutes of making my call, trucks started to arrive. And arrive. And arrive. Soon, our street was full of vehicles of all kinds, and the neighbors had come out of their houses to see what had happened. 

An official looking fireman rushed up to us and asked what had happened. I answered, "I was grilling fish." He smiled, then I told him what had happened with the propane. He donned a heavy-duty protective suit, then accompanied me to our back yard, where the lone little propane tank lay flaming. I was, of course, a bit embarrassed by all this attention, and I indicated as such to him, but he told me that I had done the right thing, because occasionally, these small propane tanks explode, producing shrapnel. He managed to put out the flame, but the propane continued to leak from the tank, so he took it back to the front yard and placed it at the edge of our driveway, which sat at the top of a hill, visible to anyone who passed on the street.

We thanked the fire crew, and they went on their way. The little propane tank continued to leak for another two days, so we kept an eye on it, as did many of our neighbors, I'm sure.

We successfully grilled fish many more times until one night in 1995, when we decided to experiment with the somewhat dated Jenn-Air grill that was in the kitchen of our current home. We were leasing at the time, awaiting the sale and closing of our previous house, and owing to the situation, we were trying to be very careful with the fixtures of our (hopefully) new home, just in case things didn't work out. Many years had passed since the Roswell Fish Incident, and perhaps we had let our guard down a bit, but the important thing to note is that our intentions were good. We were a recently relocated family, trying in earnest to feed our two young daughters a healthy and delicious grilled fish meal.

Initially, everything went well. The fish sat sizzling, looking for all intents and purposes like the perfect meal, when suddenly, flames erupted, licking at the bottom of the cabinets above. In a panic, I reached for the nearest fire extinguisher. (One thing to note here -- in my 40 years, I had never used a fire extinguisher.) I pointed the nozzle of its red cylinder at the range top and squeezed the handle, at which point a giant cloud of powdery-looking chemicals filled the kitchen. Karen yelled to me that she wanted me not to spray the fish, because it was expensive. Just to be on the safe side, she wiped it with a paper towel, and the whole thing was done. We transferred the fish to a safer cooking alternative, and we all sat down to a nice meal. No one grew a third eye, so I believe we removed all the chemicals.

We still grill fish, but under closely monitored conditions. The kids made good grades in school, and I hope that at least some of that is owing to brain enhancement from the fish that we so diligently tried to serve them. I'm just glad that we didn't set ourselves on fire in the process. 

Happy grilling, y'all.

Mambo Americano

I enjoy authoring this blog for many reasons, not the least of which is the freedom to write about anything that crosses my somewhat spontaneous, freewheeling mind. Not long ago, I submitted my blog to an automated ad-generating tool, which said that it needed a theme on which to base ads. It was stymied in that it could find no common topic thread among all the posts I've written since 2004. Therefore, it is my belief that I have succeeded in my mission.

Today, I'd like to write about something which is near and dear to (some of) our hearts. Others think it is an overrated food item, but I'm here to set the story straight, because I have done my homework. I'd like to talk about the humble Moon Pie, alternatively known as the "marshmallow pie," and some of its notable imitators.

First off, if you're not familiar with Moon Pies (which I totally understand, what with some of you hailing from places far removed from the American South), a little introduction is in order. Moon Pies are a treat consisting of two graham cracker wafers sandwiching a layer of marshmallow creme, with the entire assembly being dipped in chocolate or other flavors, chocolate being the most common. As of this writing, pies also are available in vanilla, strawberry, banana (surprisingly good), lemon, orange, and salted caramel flavors, but in my opinion, the chocolate is still the real deal. Official Moon Pies have been made in Chattanooga, Tennessee, since 1917, which makes them exactly one hundred years old. They were originally developed as a portable snack for Kentucky coal miners who had asked if the bakery could produce a treat "as big as the moon."

In Southern tradition, it is quite common for a Moon Pie to be paired with an RC Cola, although the origin of this practice is unknown. "Big Bill" Lister, a honkytonk country singer of the 1950's, actually released a hit song during that era which was titled "Gimmee an RC Cola and a Moon Pie." (I just had to throw that in to prove that I'd actually done my homework.)

When I was a child, my parents referred to marshmallow pies as "mambo pies." (That term is magical to me, so if you don't mind, I'm going to use it for the remainder of this article.) A mambo pie could be any of several brands of marshmallow pies on the market at that time, including Bremner's and Lara-Lynn, in addition to the Moon Pie. Bremner's was a fairly well-known imitation of the Moon Pie, and just a few days ago, I saw their pies pictured in a 1959 advertisement from a Delaware grocery store, confirming what I had always guessed, that they weren't a strictly Southern treat. I absolutely loved getting a new box of mambo pies -- there was something magical about slicing open the white wrapper to the box, viewing the individually wrapped mambo pies begging to be eaten while binge-watching cartoons.

You'd think that over the years, as my tastes expanded to include all kinds of regional and international food, the appeal of a humble mambo pie might be somewhat diminished. Not so. I retain that fondness for domestic mambo pies, but I've also found some wonderful alternatives manufactured outside the United States. This didn't happen intentionally.

One day years ago, while shopping with my daughter Hannah at a local H-Mart, a gigantic Asian supermarket, we happened to notice this shiny gold box over on the side of the store, on a rack all by itself. Upon closer inspection, we found that the treats contained within were known as "Choco-Pies," and that they were made in Korea. We bought the box and brought it home with a mix of anticipation and caution. When we opened it, we found each pie individually wrapped in foil, presumably for freshness, and when we sampled the contents, we were delighted. The Choco-Pie was every bit as good as the original Moon Pie or any of its imitators, and it was of sufficiently superb quality to be referred to from that point forward as a genuine mambo pie. We might not have been able to read the ingredients list, but it didn't matter.

Earlier this week, I was visiting for the first time an international gourmet market in Alpharetta, Georgia, only five miles or so from our house. As I perused the aisles, my excitement built when I saw endless variations of sugar wafers, another of my vices. And then, to my sheer delight, I spotted it: yet another variation of the Moon Pie, this one also in a shiny gold box. These pies were produced by a company called Ülker from Turkey and were named "Chocolate Halley." Of course, I bought a box and brought it home.

The Chocolate Halleys were stacked together and not individually wrapped, but they were placed in a nice snap-fit plastic tray to keep them fresh. On my first bite, I noticed that this pie featured more crunchy graham layers, reminiscent of the original Moon Pies that we used to buy back in the day. As I recall, the remainder of the pie was excellent, as I consumed the entire thing in less than a minute.

Indeed, my experiences with mambo pies in general have been rewarding, except for one minor incident. One stressful workday afternoon in the late 1980's, I purchased a double-decker (three layers of graham cookie and two layers of marshmallow creme) Moon Pie from a company vending machine. I noticed on the package that it said the pie would be delicious if microwaved, and in my mind, this seemed like a good thing. I opened the microwave and inserted the Moon Pie, then set the recommended cook time and pressed the start button. What emerged from the microwave at the end of that period can only be described as tragic. The chocolate coating was reasonably intact, but the marshmallow creme had oozed out the sides, transforming my much anticipated treat into a volcanic mess. The pie was as hot as the surface of the sun, and once it had cooled, it was just a blob. I ate it, of course.

For those of you who pooh-pooh real Moon Pies, I understand where you're coming from. It's true that the graham cookie layers seem a wee bit drier than they were in the 1960's, but hey, the company is still in business after one hundred years, so that says something. What with the plethora of offshore options available these days, I envision a bright future for mambo pies. In fact, if I have room left tonight, I may down another Chocolate Halley. Truly, there is hope for the future.

Fear and Loathing at the Drive-Thru

It happened again this morning: I experienced acute schizophrenia at the drive-thru.

I'm a Baby Boomer, which means I was born before 1964 -- how long, I'm not saying, but some of you already know. In that substantial length of time, I feel as if I've seen it all in one form or another, and that includes the evolution of fast food restaurants, the likes of which I have probably visited far too many times. But let's face it, sometimes you're in a hurry, and fast food fits the bill: it's either that, or hold off eating until 11:00 PM, at which point your stomach (see the post "Who's the Boss?") will once again assert its full leadership potential. To avoid such a catastrophic situation, one sometimes finds oneself taking fast food a step further by not even going inside and instead using the drive-thru. And here's where it all breaks down for me.

I am not a drive-thru person. Those who have ridden with me might say that this is actually a vast understatement. I have been known to experience instant mood changes when confronted with an unfamiliar drive-thru menu, which in my mind requires minute upon minute of searching to find the desired items while impatient motorists, all of whom seem to have honed their drive-thru skills, wait patiently (or sometimes not) behind me. The only drive-thru that I've ever been comfortable with is the Jack-in-the-Box on Devonshire Street in Chatsworth, California, back in the Sixties, and that's only because: a) either my cousin Debi or her boyfriend Paul, a "Valley Couple," were driving, b) we didn't have to wear shoes in the car, and c) there were only about five items on the menu. Indeed, drive-thrus are a true test of my otherwise unwavering (ha, ha) good nature.

Drive-thrus used to be notorious for messing up your food order, so much so that McDonald's installed temporary parking spots adjacent to its restaurants so that you could dig down into the bag and check your order. Well, OK, that wasn't really the reason, but I like to use that as an excuse. It seems, and I say this cautiously, that drive-thru order accuracy has improved slightly, but it's not anything reliable enough to bet money on at this point. I always check my order, because it's almost certain that if I don't, there will be an issue. The last time I failed to check my order, I got home with cheeseburgers that were missing the meat. In the words of Dave Barry, "I am not making this up."

The other major issue with drive-thrus involves air pollution. I'll bet that if every drive-thru in the United States were to close for just a month, we'd experience enough of a hiatus in global warming that an entire glacial formation could reconstitute itself. Cars sitting there idling have to be emitting tons of pollution.

Of course, there are times and situations where drive-thrus make a bit of sense, such as when you're driving around on a July day and need a drink pronto, but the catch there is, you're only ordering one item. This works fine for soft drinks and milkshakes; however, try ordering a half-sweet and half-unsweet iced tea and watch what you get: almost guaranteed that it will be a concoction so sweet your teeth will hurt.

My most humorous experience with drive-thrus involved an evening years ago when my wife Karen and I decided to visit the Roswell Dairy Queen. I love DQ custard ice cream, and one of my favorite treats is the good old chocolate dipped cone. That evening, Karen insisted that we use the drive-thru. I wanted to go inside, but she would have none of that. The problem was that we were in my convertible with the top down, and the evening was very warm. By the time I got back home, a ride of maybe fifteen minutes, I was so covered in ice cream that my shirt and I both had to go in the wash immediately.

I wish I could get over this. I see myself making baby steps, such as using the Starbucks drive-thru. That one only makes me a little nervous, because I generally order one of several well-thought-out things, and if I freeze up and mistakenly order the wrong beverage, it doesn't make much of a difference, as long as it contains caffeine. Nowadays, I usually just go with the crowd if they want to stop at a drive-thru, then try to consume the food while it is still hot or cold, as the case may be. So, please don't hold this against me if you're a drive-thru fan -- I've tried to like them, I really have, and maybe someday, I'll put enough faith in the system to go all by myself. Maybe I should ask my doctor for a Xanax prescription first, though. You can't be too careful with this kind of stuff.

Spice of Life

"Anything worth doing is worth overdoing."

-- Mick Jagger

It all started back in 1979, when I visited an Indian restaurant for the first time.  It was a bone chilling late February afternoon in Chicago, and a group of us had gone to see our friend Sheila perform in a chamber music concert.  Afterward, we decided to walk to Bengal Lancer, a cozy Indian restaurant on Clark Street.  As soon as I entered the place, I was in nirvana.  There were two fireplaces, weathered wood floors, windows that looked down on a snow-covered Clark Street, and the most heavenly aromas I had ever experienced.  I started with a Pimm's Cup and ordered bhuna gosht for my entrée.  The food took quite a while to prepare, but when it arrived, I could not believe the intensity of the flavors and my resultant euphoria.  Truly, I thought, this was my endorphins kicking into overdrive.

Several years later, I would head with a group of work friends to North Peking Restaurant on Roswell Road in Atlanta every Monday at noon, where one of our crowd had discovered an incredibly spicy version of General Tsu's chicken.  What started as a small group of three eventually morphed into a crowd of at least ten who would head to North Peking every Monday for "Tsu's".  We did this for about three years running. When we became accustomed to the Tsu's, we started ordering "House Chicken", which was even hotter. That era accelerated my hot food craving and took it to another level.

Last year, the girls took me for my birthday dinner to a Thai restaurant in the Atlanta suburbs, where I ordered this chicken dish with the "Thai Hot" seasoning option.  This is something I ordinarily do, but this time, what came out was stupendously hot, yet flavorful.  The chef and owner, a fashionable lady named Tham, came out to our table and asked how we were enjoying our meal.  When I complimented her on the delicious dish I was having, she told me that she couldn't eat her own Thai Hot food because it was too spicy.  Then, her staff brought me a beautiful birthday dessert, and that just topped the whole thing off.  I can't wait to go back to that place, actually.

Back in the summer of 2002, we took the girls to Gulf Shores for a family vacation, and on our last evening there, my younger daughter Hannah and I decided to have a so-called "Hot Food Eating Contest".  We each ate about a half basket of hush puppies which we dipped in Scotch Bonnet pepper sauce. I thought the entire idea was admirable, and I totally enjoyed my dinner, that is, until we headed back to our condo, when I noticed that the underside of my left forearm was breaking out in a rash.  After a three-hour wait at the local hospital emergency room, I was sent home and told to take Benadryl.  Would I do the hush puppy/pepper thing again?  You betcha.

Source: http://www.natural-reflux-cure.com/stomach-acid.html

In 2007, a group of my Indian friends invited me to another Hot Food Eating Contest, this one at lunchtime, where I was to compete with my new friend Andrew to see who could eat the hottest food.  I did not know until we arrived at the restaurant that Andrew was from Malaysia.  When I heard that, I knew I might be out of my league, but nevertheless, Andrew and I managed to stay neck-and-neck throughout the meal, and we agreed afterward that the meal wasn't really all that hot.  One night a couple of years later, my friend Tarun, who hails from Hyderabad, told me over a plate of hot wings, "Rico, you eat hotter food than any white man I have ever known."  I took that as a supreme compliment.

It's not that I don't appreciate a delicately flavored dish; in fact, savoring those subtle nuances can be a delightful experience.  And I realize that hot food is not for everyone, yet I find it amusing when I hear people say how this or that hot dish will be so tough on their stomachs.  Human stomach acid is actually almost as strong as battery acid and can, in fact, eat through steel (see the pH chart above -- acids are at the top, with zero pH being the strongest).  Granted, the heat has to get past the taste buds, and truly, they're the gatekeepers when it comes to elective ingestion.  But the thing is, once you get used to eating hot food and the spike in endorphin release that it produces, you can find yourself hooked fairly easily.  After all, endorphins are natural opiates -- they produce a feeling of well-being.  And let's face facts: it's far more respectable to be addicted to spicy basil fried rice than to hang out in opium dens.

These days, Hannah and I still enjoy going out for hot food, and I guess that sometimes it's a contest of sorts, but actually, we just like the way it tastes, and besides, it's a great father-daughter bonding activity with a historical precedent.  I just make sure to check for rashes now and then, and I always know where we keep the Benadryl.  Bon appétit!

The Wine Hike

It was a Groupon deal.  For my birthday last year, my wife Karen found this online offer that seemed to be right up my alley, since it blended two of my favorite activities, walking and wine consumption, into one day-long adventure.  According to the deal, we were supposed to drive to Fort Yargo State Park in Winder, Georgia, and from there, we would be ferried via some unknown conveyance to the starting point of a hike that would take us to Chateau Elan Winery, at which we would have lunch, then return back to where we had started.  I wasn't sure how many miles this would be, but all in all, it sounded like a good way to spend a Saturday.  Given that the Groupon offer was only good for one year and that my next birthday was quickly approaching, we had to go ahead and schedule the hike.

Victoria Bryant Lake

One thing I've learned from many years of working and living is that one must be prepared for the unexpected.  And so, when I heard that our destination had changed from Fort Yargo to a certain Victoria Bryant State Park "somewhere out I-85", followed by a hike to "some winery out there", I went with the flow.  We awoke early and headed to our favorite Norcross coffee shop for our morning breakfast, then set off up I-85.  A little over an hour later, at about 11:00 AM, we arrived at Victoria Bryant State Park, where we purchased a day pass and found a nice parking space.

Although the hike was scheduled to start at 11:00, at least for a while it seemed that we were the only "wine hikers" there.  The park office featured a nice oil painting of a lady whom I assumed was Victoria and a small cooler filled with Klondike Bars and Drumsticks.  There was a stand of rod and reel kits and a rack of t-shirts, along with a table full of fishing thingies, and since I don't know much about fishing, I'll leave it at that.  Within several minutes, we had exhausted the available entertainment options at the office, so we ventured back outside to wait for our wine tour guide to appear.

At 11:30, there still was no guide, and by this time, several other Grouponers had arrived, among them a couple who appeared to be regular hikers, a man who was a big University of Georgia fan, and two young ladies who worked together in a doctor's office.  Several of the more resourceful people started examining the park trail map, thinking that we might have to do this thing on our own.  Karen suggested that I call the winery to see if we could find a number for our guide, so I did that.  The winery indicated that we were not on the Saturday tour schedule and were actually supposed to be there on Sunday, but to "come on out and it would be okay".  This was not particularly reassuring, but just as my concern peaked, up roared our guide, an energetic little man of Middle Eastern descent, ready to lead the expedition.

The hike had been billed as an "easy walk", but even as a regular walker, I would consider this trail "medium".  It was apparent early on that our guide, whom I shall call "T", was used to this sort of thing -- he was like a windup toy with well-defined calf muscles.  There were long stretches of uphill paths, spots where we had to finagle our way across rocks and streams, and pieces of trail that consisted mostly of tree trunks.  But we reveled in the fact that there would be wine at the end, and of course, during the hike, there was the promised lunch.

Because "T" was a renaissance man with a strong affinity for organic food, our lunch (which he had brought in a small backpack) consisted of turkey on flatbread, fresh kale, carrots (I think), and goji berries.  "T" had trouble saying "goji", so we started calling them "hoochie-coochie berries".  This elicited much laughter from the group, especially when I indicated that after consuming them, I had started to see colors.  One of the young ladies in the group chimed in, "Yes, you eat them, and you go, 'Where are my pants?'"  That seemed to break the ice for all of us, and we decided that we kind of liked this organic food, after all.  I even had a second flatbread sandwich.

After the rest period, we again hit the trail and completed the hike, which I would guess to have been somewhere between five and six miles.  At the end, we struggled uphill to the parking lot, except for "T", who ran up about eighty stairs to get back to his car.  Having witnessed that show of athletic prowess and realizing that it was beyond my good sense or abilities, I was relieved that it was time to visit the winery.

We had directions, but we found it easier to follow the maps on my iPhone to direct us to Boutier Winery, in the community of Danielsville, Georgia.  OK, now...I'm a city person at heart, and I can find my way to almost any nook and cranny of the city of Atlanta, but this place was out there.  We pulled into the parking lot, put on flip-flops, and headed into the air-conditioned wine tasting room, where we were greeted by a nice Irish lady named Mary.

Mary and her significant other own the Boutier Winery and an adjacent bed and breakfast, and we were not disappointed with the wine selection.  The wines, mostly fruit based, were given clever names such as Diva'licious (peach), Absolutely Sinful (peach ice) and Skinny Bitch (blueberry).  We sampled a wide variety of the offerings and went home with four bottles for the cellar.  At the end of the afternoon, we had to agree that this wine hike thing was a fairly righteous idea, even if it didn't exactly start on time or follow the initial plan.

And so I say unto you: yes, you can visit your local Trader Joe's for some Two Buck Chuck, or you can browse the aisles of Total Wine for just the perfect wine to accompany your pheasant under glass, but listen up: there is nothing to beat walking one's buns off, eating hoochie-coochie berries in the middle of nowhere on a really hot day, then heading home with some wine named Skinny Bitch. That, my friends, makes for an afternoon.

Cheers!

One Potato, Two Potato, Three Potato, Four...

Since birth, I appear to have been obsessed with potatoes of all types.  Indeed, I cannot remember a time when they were not an integral part of my diet.  I must have passed through a rice cereal phase, and I'm sure there were forays into strained apples, but in the end, and prior to the dawn of my conscious memory, I came to my senses and began consuming potatoes in earnest.  It must have been a day of celebration in my toddler life.

I actually came to know potatoes in stages.  The earliest tater memories that I have are of french fries.  When we moved to Memphis in 1960, my parents took me to a McDonald's...it had been years since they'd lived in a place with Mickey D's, and I think their craving got the best of them.  So from that point forward, I became seriously involved with the lovely russet potatoes used to fill those red boxes.  There was no going back, I soon discovered.

Back in the day, Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurants were largely independently franchised, and the owner of our local establishment was one Jack Pirtle, which I always thought was a particularly fitting name for a chicken man.  Pirtle served up the trademark chicken with these limp, but quite tasty, crinkle cut fries, served in a loose-fitting paper wrapper that resembled a modern day coffee filter.  One night, my parents decided to step out on a limb, and instead of french fries, we ordered mashed potatoes, which I flatly refused to eat.  But this being the 1960's, there was no alternative offered, so I finally gave in after about an hour and tasted them.  It was a pivotal moment in my life -- these wonderful soft potatoes, covered in a tasty brown gravy, were something I had missed for ten years, so believe me, I made up for lost time.

In the early 1970's, company-owned Kentucky Fried chicken restaurants began to appear, and they did not offer french fries of any type.  Instead, they replaced them with tater tots.  Let me say that for whatever reason, it took me quite a long time to warm up to tater tots, but eventually, as with mashed potatoes, I discovered that with just the right proportions of ketchup and salt, these too could be made into edible delicacies.  To this day, I still like to know where my tater tots came from.

And then there is the entire universe of potato chips, invented by one George Crum (pictured at right) on August 24, 1853.  Let's face it, 87% of people on the planet, regardless of what they say, can eat mass quantities of potato chips without feeling any guilt whatsoever.  They might say, "Oh, no, no chips for me," but seriously, even the strongest of naysayers will still reach into a freshly opened bag and stealthily grab a couple of chips.  You can always tell the chip dilettantes, though...they're the ones who bring off-brand chips to social functions.  Local brands such as Cape Cod or Laura Scudder's are perfectly acceptable, but the house brands of major grocery chains will cause the seasoned potato chip aficionado to look askance and perhaps even ask for potato salad instead.  Poor form, indeed.

Among the finer things in life, the simple baked potato must truly stand alone.  What other creation can be brought home, placed in the microwave, then split open, buttered and seasoned, and consumed with such pure delight?  One of our favorite meals is "potato night", where we simply bake the potatoes, then put out bowls of grated cheese, broccoli, and bacon, which each person measures onto their potato in their own customized ratio.  When I know that potato night is on the horizon, I have no concentration during the day, instead thinking ahead to dinner.  When I'm out at a restaurant, I will order a baked potato "with all the stuff on the side", then systematically proceed to add all that same stuff (except sour cream) to the potato, with extra butter for good measure.  With baked potatoes, I almost always end up eating the entire potato, skin and all.  I read once in the 1970's that eating the potato skin has benefits, so I've followed that advice ever since.  The 1970's were a great time for learning things like that.

Surely, no reference to the potato world would be complete without the inclusion of hash browns.  Indeed, hash browns alone can turn a mediocre breakfast into sumptuous splendor.  My home city of Atlanta is also home to Waffle House, and according to one meticulous researcher, there were at last count 1,572,864 ways to order hash browns at WAHO.  Some of the more popular variations are "scattered" (spread on the grill) and:

• smothered (with onions)
• covered (with cheese)
• chunked (with ham)
• topped (with chili)
• diced (with tomatoes)
• scattered (with jalapenos)
• capped (with mushrooms)

I generally order my WAHO hash browns "smothered", and they are simply divine.  The key to good hash browns seems to be to cook them until the edges and tops turn a medium toasty brown.  They are the ultimate breakfast side dish experience, and I'm convinced that they were invented by a higher power.

We cannot have a fancy dinner without someone suggesting "cheesy potatoes", which are diced potatoes mixed with cheese and other "nutrients".  I have seen many people eat the cheesy potatoes, and regardless of age, gender, national origin, religious beliefs, or shoe size, I have yet to see anyone exhibit any degree of control in eating them.  It appears that when it comes to cheesy potatoes, there are truly no known limits.

In one potato arena, I am severely deficient: sweet potatoes.  This is not because I do not like them, but rather, they do not appear to like me...they give me headaches, regardless of how they are prepared.  On one unusual occasion, I had a strong craving for baked sweet potatoes, so we had them with dinner, and I gobbled mine like a freed prisoner.  However, two weeks later we had them again, and this time, I could not put down the first bite without sustaining a pronounced headache.  I can only assume that on that first sampling, my body was craving something in the sweet potatoes, but I'll never know.  I nibble around the currently popular sweet potato fries, but something in them strikes a chord of dissonance within my system, so I leave them to those who truly appreciate them.

A few weeks ago, I heard on the news that potato growers are concerned about a marked decline in french fry consumption within the last couple of years.  According to the people who study this kind of thing, consumers are a) opting for alternative side dishes, and b) declining said side dishes because of the added expense in this fragile economy.  Most people seem to think that when the economy bounces back, so will french fry consumption.  In the meantime, restaurants are offering interesting french fry variations, such as Wendy's Natural Cut Fries with Sea Salt, in an effort to keep sales level.  Who knows what will happen?

Just this evening, I had a meal at Chick-fil-A with their fabulous waffle fries.  I know they're probably not all that healthy an option, yet it makes me feel good to know that in some small way, I'm helping to stimulate the American economy.  I can't buy a new car or a new house right now, but I can certainly eat me some waffle fries.  It's the little things.

Passing the Bar

My Facebook profile lists "dining out" as one of my favorite activites, and indeed, it always has been. I can recall from my childhood many evenings dining with my parents at any of a number of family restaurants that dotted our Memphis and West Tennessee landscape. We spent countless evenings at Shoney's or Bonanza, feasting on hearty meals that by today's standards were simple, but overall were a great value. We ate fabulous barbecue from vintage restaurants with formica tables and spent late nights at classic grotto-like Italian establishments such as Pete and Sam's or Grisanti's. In fact, dining with my family at these places is collectively one of my favorite memories.

When I moved away to college to Chicago, I appeared to have landed in Gastronomia. I had never seen the likes of some of this food -- deep-dish pizza, mouth-watering kosher deli sandwiches, and authentic Czechoslovakian delicacies. My circle of friends and their families introduced me to a vast array of new food and broadened my eating horizons in a way that I had never anticipated. Suddenly, there was no better treat than a hand-scooped Italian ice from a corner grocery in Berwyn.

Atlanta is a dining mecca. We can go from country fried steak to foie gras to massaman curry to tandoori chicken to spaetzle all in the blink of an eye. It makes eating out quite an adventure, and many of the restaurants are surprisingly affordable. The diversity of the city's neighborhoods and ethnicities makes for a schooled palate, if you're willing to experiment a little.

But despite my affinity for dining out, there is one corner of this world that has never truly captured my affections, and that is the bar. Yes, I know -- bars are the places to meet people, hang out, do business, or whatever, but for some reason, I have trouble with them. I'm not saying that I don't think they have their place, but they're just not for me. I have no aversion to the concept of alcohol, as witnessed by many of my earlier posts regarding wine and spirits and the dubious stories related thereto, but I'm picky about the venue in which I libate.

For one thing, it is practically impossible to get a drink at some of our Atlanta bars unless you are eight feet tall and can tower over the crowd standing and sitting at the bar. Oh, by the way, sitting...did I say sitting? I actually landed a seat at the bar at a Decatur restaurant this past weekend and almost fainted from shock to find that I was actually seated close enough to the bartenders to talk to them without screaming. In a way, it was nice. Typically, one must speak at a level exceeding ninety decibels in order to be heard.

I have noticed some regional differences regarding bar habits and etiquette. For example, New Englanders tend to gravitate toward the bar at lunch, something which is not so common in the South. Californians seem to be pretty chilled about the whole bar thing and favor a lot of wine, and it's fairly easy to place your mixed drink order in Chicago or New Orleans -- bartenders in those places seem to be up to the task. New York, I don't know -- I don't recall that I've ever been to the bar there, but perhaps someday...after all, I do have a certain weird fascination with the Apple, and servers tend to be attentive there.

Maybe part of the whole aversion I have is this phrase "belly up to the bar". Something about that just doesn't sound appealing to me. It implies that I am going to have to haul myself up there and place my belly against the bar, where more likely than not, something will have just been spilled. Now, honestly...where is the fun in that? Not to mention that, owing to my limited beer consumption, I do not have a "beer belly" in any sense of the word, and that's just fine with me.

But please do not take my lack of bar enthusiasm as any kind of deterrent to your own enjoyment, because heaven knows, I would not expect everyone to frequent my kind of third world hangouts, where I order my volcanic food and wash it down with martinis or an IPA. We all have different tastes, and that's what makes it fun. Nevertheless, if you do have any pointers on how to get a drink in under five minutes at a Buckhead bar on a Saturday night without an illegal exchange of cash, I'd certainly be interested to know your secret.

Now excuse me while I try to get this bartender's attention. Ahem.

A Little Something on the Side

The revered annual Turkey Day has once again passed, and the systemic remnants of tryptophan are rapidly dissipating but are soon to be replaced, once that next big holiday arrives. Speaking of, are you a fan of outdoor LED lights? Ah, that's fodder for another post. Let it be for now.

This year's Thanksgiving dinner planning for our family was cleverly orchestrated by my wife, a chef and baker par extraordinaire, and it included an email survey to our immediate family regarding the meat of choice to be served at the dinner. The main reason for this, as she stated, was that we needed something to go with the side dishes. You see, it's the side dishes that we actually crave, that tantalizing two to four (come on, be honest here) scoops of cornbread dressing, or "stuffing", if you're north of the Mason-Dixon Line, that sit there next to the turkey or ham.

Let us veer off the course into fashion for a moment. I know, I know...but bear with me on this. Consider that you've just purchased the LBD (that's Little Black Dress, gentlemen), a wardrobe staple, but the ensemble is incomplete until you find the perfect accessories. I mean, it would work on its own, but ideally, it needs just a bit of sizzle. Well, the traditional turkey dinner is something like that -- turkey, on its own, is not bad, and in fact, it's a culinary holiday staple of sorts, but without the right accompaniment, it falls just a tad short of its true potential as a feast headliner. You can put some gravy on it, but it is unfulfilled without green bean casserole, cheesy potatoes, and dressing, heaps of dressing. Oh, and cranberry something-or-other. Personally, I prefer my cranberry in martinis, but that's just me talking.

So, we did the Thanksgiving vote, and it appeared to work quite well. We ended up feasting on a turkey/ham combination with all these tasty side dishes and a number of incredible desserts that warrant their own blog posting. I will say that one of the "desserts", a vast array of maple flavored acorn-shaped muffins, has provided me breakfast all this weekend. The side dishes once again ruled at the dinner itself, lending credence to that belief that the best things in life don't always get top billing.

Like lots of males of the species, I confess that I'm already anticipating the next big meal, but I don't know if I can bargain for two cornbread dressing treats in a month. I'll certainly give it that old college try. (By the way, where I went to college, they didn't even have cornbread dressing -- it was "stuffing" -- whatever. Call it what you will, it was still the goods.) And all this kidding aside, I think that what I'll really be looking forward to at that next holiday is actually less about the food and more about just being together with family and friends, because that's what really accessorizes life. What better time to savor it than now?

Eclipse of the Moon (Pie)

Move over, Moon Pie. There's a new kid on the block, he's from Korea, and his name is Choco-Pie.

I first saw the Choco-Pie about two years ago at one of our local Super H Marts, an Asian superstore featuring everything from bok choy to cosmetics. While browsing in a back aisle one afternoon, I came across this interesting looking package of something resembling Moon Pies. I bought a box, took them home, and was surprised to find that they were delicious. I say "surprised" because I have not seen a serious Moon Pie contender in over thirty years.

Other than their country of origin, there are a few differences between Choco-Pies and Moon Pies. Choco-Pies come individually wrapped in foil, not cellophane, packages to keep them fresh. Their texture is somewhat softer than a Moon Pie, and there is not to my knowledge the double-decker option provided by Moon Pies. I have not seen Choco-Pies in any flavor other than chocolate (of course), unlike Moon Pies, which offer banana and vanilla flavors in addition to the original chocolate variety. Nevertheless, the Choco-Pie coating is rich and dark, and an entire box of twelve pies sells for just under four dollars. I have yet to find them anywhere else in Atlanta but at Super H Mart.

Being somewhat curious about all this, I did some web research and found that Orion Confectionery, the company which makes Choco-Pies, actually supplies them to Korean soldiers once they have completed their first week of basic training. The market for the pies is growing steadily -- in fact, over twelve billion of them have been sold worldwide, and let's face it, twelve billion of anything is a lot.

I think this is another one of those cases where globalization is here to stay. But in this instance, I believe that there will always be a place for Moon Pies...after all, they are a Southern tradition. Life without Moon Pies (even if you don't eat them) would be something like the South without Coca-Cola...it just wouldn't be proper in the least.

So, if you're a Moon Pie nut like me, go ahead and try a Choco-Pie. Just don't tell Aunt Bessie about it.

In Search of the Green Fairy

What a week! By the end, I was almost considering absinthe. Now, you may say, isn't that a bit edgy? Perhaps, but then again, almost everything makes it to Whole Bean eventually.

Absinthe, nicknamed "the green fairy", is an anise-flavored alcoholic beverage originally distilled from the wormwood plant. Developed in Switzerland as a medicinal elixir, the drink gained popularity in the late 1800's during a period when problems in French wine production forced imbibers to look elsewhere. Its reputation as a "vivifying" potion which could boost the mind and spirit resulted in absinthe becoming a fashionable afternoon drink in Paris, New York, and New Orleans. Van Gogh and Toulouse-Lautrec were said to be particularly fond of it.

But by the early 1900's, absinthe had become quite controversial. Sales were banned in the United States beginning in 1912, and the restrictions were not lifted until 2007. A quote from a Wikipedia article sums up the reasoning behind the ban:

Due in part to its associations with bohemian culture, absinthe was opposed by social conservatives and prohibition supporters. It was portrayed as a dangerously addictive, psychoactive drug, and the chemical thujone, present in small quantities in wormwood, was blamed for these alleged effects.

Further qualitative analysis in recent years has indicated that absinthe is no more dangerous than ordinary alcohol, and most likely, its psychoactive properties have been overstated. The original recipe for absinthe has been modified, using different methods, by a number of distillers worldwide; in fact, these new variations can now be sold legally in many countries. However, due to its inherent toxicity in large doses, thujone content is now strictly limited in commercially-produced absinthe.

The whole thing is somewhat curious. Ever since I visited "The Old Absinthe House" in New Orleans one evening in 1987 for a night of blues, I have wondered exactly what happened to this strange brew. Interesting stuff, it is.

Valentine's Day Gone Wrong

As is the case with many things, it all started so innocently.

A friend of mine volunteers as a chef's assistant at Whole Foods and helps to teach cooking classes. She is one of the store's top volunteers, working several sessions per month, sacrificing her personal time for the advancement of culinary science. One such class was held last night, in the waning hours of Valentine's Day. This class was attended by 13 couples who thought they might treat themselves to something a little different this year.

The intentions were good all the way around. The problem was that the chef conducting the class, although pleasant when interacting with the class participants, was quite rude to the staff of four volunteers assisting her. Throughout the evening, when asked this question or that, the chef would snap back a curt reply, often bordering on downright hostility. The class had started at 6:00, so by 10:30, when everything finally wrapped up for the evening, the prevailing atmosphere was one of relief that this dreadful thing had finally come to an end.

At 10:30, there were four volunteers left, and my friend, who incidentally is not much of a drinker, realized that consuming the leftover champagne by the glass was a much too slow road to true inebriation, and she opted instead to drink it straight from the bottle.

I think that next year, my friend will probably opt to make something special for Valentine's dinner, something a bit more predictable -- reservations, perhaps.

Sugo, Sugo, Sugo!

This past Thursday evening, a group of us from work decided to meet for P-Council. The Council has been off schedule as of late, due primarily to the holidays and a fairly heavy year-end workload. After some deliberation, we chose Sugo as our meeting place. Sugo is a family-owned restaurant with three locations in the Atlanta area, and our friend Tim, having visited there often, highly recommended it. Since Tim has dined all over the world, we trust him.

When I arrived at the bar, our friend Keith was already there. I ordered a grapefruit cosmopolitan, an interesting twist on one of my favorite martinis, and was impressed by the lightly tonic quality combined with a tasty cosmopolitan base. Tim arrived shortly, and since he was a regular, we were soon visited by the son of the owner, who provided a brief overview of the family history.

It seems that somewhere back along the line, Greek and Italian families came together and started combining elements of both cuisines. Several family restaurants were opened in the Northeast, and in the Nineties, the family decided to bring the business to Atlanta. It is obvious that these people know their food. But not only that, they also know how to serve guests and make them feel truly welcome.

After spending a few minutes at the bar's comfortably appointed lounge area, we were shown to a table, and then the true treat began. The owner came to our table, introduced himself, began to tell us a little more about the family history, and then launched into a prosaic description of the dishes being featured that evening. By the time he had finished, we were in awe. Every ingredient and sauce was described in detail, and it became something of a task to decide between all the wonderful alternatives.

I chose a dish called Pernice's Chicken. Heavens above...I have never eaten anything like this. Allow me to lift the description from the menu, because I cannot do it justice otherwise:

"Pernice's Chicken - Dressed with a touch of tomato basil sauce, Prosciutto di Parma ham, caramelized onions, dates, spinach, pecorino romano, and provolone cheese. Served atop basil and black pepper papparadelle pasta tossed with roasted parsnips, caramelized radishes, figs, cherry tomatoes, cremini, portabello, and oyster mushrooms."

Not only was the food superb, the service was phenomenal. The owner's son stopped by as we were dining to check on us, and our server, a very pleasant and hospitable young lady, dropped back over to our table several times to discuss the food and to tell us a little about herself. An enterprising art student, she has great plans for her future. I hope to see her work in a gallery someday!

In Atlanta, we have many restaurants that try so hard to provide the "ultimate dining experience", and every once in a while, we find a true gem. Sugo is one of those. Our entire visit was so much more than just a dinner. It was like being welcomed into a family's home to dine with them. This restaurant is so "with it" that it even features its own blog entitled "A Day in the Life of a Family Run Restaurant".

Hats off to this wonderful establishment. I cannot say enough good things about Sugo.

Whole Foods 3X

Yesterday marked the grand opening of a new Whole Foods store, located next door to our office building. What a fiesta that was! WF started the day by serving up free breakfast and coffee in their parking lot, followed by a "bread-breaking" (in lieu of ribbon-cutting) ceremony to open its beautiful new 63,000 square foot store to the public.

For those of you living in areas not served by Whole Foods, let's just say that the store is a Disneyland of Food. It specializes in organically-grown fruits and vegetables but goes far past that to provide total food nirvana. There are cafes, gelato bars, and free food to taste everywhere. Visiting there is like stepping inside The Food Network.

Anyway, the "3X" in the blog entry title refers to the fact that I actually went to Whole Foods three times yesterday -- in the morning for free breakfast and coffee, at lunch just to wander around with friends who hadn't been able to make it to the breakfast, and then again on the way home to pick up this espresso martini mixer that I'd found at lunch. I have done Kroger twice in one day, but I've never visited a grocery store three times in one day (except when I worked in them back in the Seventies).

I think I may need therapy, but I want to make sure that the provider is licensed and uses only treatment methods approved by the FDA and certified as earth-friendly. You get the picture. See you at the checkout counter!